


how do we get here

by robins4ever



Series: It's Okay That You're Not [2]
Category: Batman (Comics), Batman - All Media Types, Batman and Robin Eternal (Comics), Red Hood and the Outlaws (Comics), Red Robin (Comics)
Genre: Angst, Cutting, Dark, Depression, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Self-Harm, Suicidal Thoughts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-03
Updated: 2017-07-03
Packaged: 2018-11-23 02:17:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,108
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11393304
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/robins4ever/pseuds/robins4ever
Summary: One minute there's a knife in your hand and it feels good to punish someone so horribly incapable of basic human functioning, and the next your fingertips are itching for something to cut on a clear sunny day for no other reason than to feel.I sort of wrote this as a prelude to Red Robin Out. Possibly multi-chapter, don't wait up.





	how do we get here

**Author's Note:**

> I didn't really know if this was written as a ship or not, I kept going back and forth in my mind as thinking of them together and then not so it's open to interpretation. TRIGGER WARNING: Please, as always guys, do not read if you are depressed/suicidal or sensitive to this type of content. If you're having thoughts or engage in self-harm, know that there are people who genuinely care and love you. Hit me up on Tumblr, robins4ever, if you want someone to talk to. I literally have nothing posted yet there as it's brand new but I'll still answer messages.

I had woken up in a reasonably good mood, had even found it in myself to say good morning to everyone sitting at the breakfast table. The flower strawberries that adorned extra fluffy french toast were almost enticing enough to lure me into socializing, but the beeping of the coffee pot reminded me that there is no better companion than an overload of caffeine. Jason greeted me with a distracted, “Morning”, preoccupied as he was with no doubt assisting Alfred in preparing lunch or better yet dessert for dinner. He alternated between chugging his own cup of coffee and zesting a lime, most likely for Damian’s favorite key lime pie. The kid had managed to attend public school for an entire week without scarring any of his classmates, physically or otherwise, and we had all agreed it was cause for celebration. 

Everything was calm and quaint as a southern hallmark until I screwed it all up. 

“What’s that?” Jason asked casually, sipping from his mug as he stared at my outstretched forearm. It took me a moment to process what he was referring to, but I pulled back fast enough to knock a cup out of the cabinet when my brain caught up. 

Fumbling my favorite coffee mug back onto the counter before it could break, I replied 

“N-nothing. It’s fine.” Dark liquid at only a little below boiling sloshed over my hand when I yanked the pot out too enthusiastically, and I couldn't help but give a little hiss when it scalded my skin red. 

He took the cup from me and guided my hand under cold water, pulled my sleeve back to wash what had soaked up my arm away while also inadvertently exposing the red marks across my wrist. I stiffen when his fingers trace the raised skin. What if he hates me, says I’m insane, is disgusted by it, tells the others I need to be locked up? 

The water rushes down the drain, some traces of dried blood washed away with it, and I continue to stay fixated on this sight rather than look at him when he breaks the silence. “Hey.” He says, waiting for a reply. I shut the water off and turn away from him, jerking out of his grip and drying off. 

“What?” I ask, refusing to face him. I end up doing said action anyway when he corners me against the counter. He placed a hand on either of my arms, gentle but trapping me nonetheless. I instinctively bat the hand away but he catches it, wrapping his fingers around the cuts as if they’ll disappear if only he can hide them well enough. He uses the leverage to pull me against himself, crushing me into a desperate hug. I don’t know how to respond so I don’t, simply allow him the affection while I’m left to figure out how I should feel in this situation. More accurately, how I should act like I feel to appear at least a little normal. 

It’s only when I feel the little telling shake of his shoulders that I begin to crack. My hands ball into his shirt, and I find myself clinging to him desperately. I can’t let go or I’ll fly away into nothing. I won’t stay grounded without something to hold onto. “Why?” he asks simply, without a trace of accusation. Tears frost bright blue eyes with maybe a couple barely noticeable flecks of green, the ghost of phantom torments that healed his body but forever wrecked his mental stability. 

“It just helps,” I reply hoarsely. 

He laughs bitterly. “Yeah, I get that.” The expression changes in severity, concern and sadness melting away what lingering smile had been left. “Watch yourself going down this road, kid.” 

“I know,” I reply. And I do. One minute there's a knife in your hand and it feels good to punish someone so horribly incapable of basic human functioning, and the next your fingertips are itching for something to cut on a clear sunny day for no other reason than to feel. It's like smoking cigarettes, no one really likes it but it takes the edge off. “I know, it's just the one thing I can do that makes me feel better without hurting anybody else.” 

Jason looks at me for a moment. “Are those the bullshit lies you tell yourself to justify it?” I open my mouth in defense of the accusation but he cuts me off. “I mean don't get me wrong, I told myself the same damn things. They're pretty convincing when you can keep it all hush hush inside your own head. But trust me, it hurts other people. It fucking sucks to see you do shit like that because I know what you have to feel like to get to that place.” He sets his jaw against a wave of anger that threatens tears. More acid green eats away the blue of his irises. It should be touching that Jason Todd of all people would show such fervent personal interest in this type of situation, but I just find myself tugging down the hems of my sleeves awkwardly. I can’t really say what I want anymore, but I know it’s not for people to care. It just makes the situation that much harder and adds a layer of guilt. Jason’s right, anybody else would be upset and concerned at the discovery of my new favorite form of self-destruction. So many people to care about me, and yet I can’t seem to. It makes things more complicated, throws a wrench in my reliable routine of mistakes and reparation. 

“What am I supposed to do?” The question slips out before I realize. 

Jay gives a sharp laugh and shakes his head. “The hell if I know. All I’m saying is you better not fucking try anything stupid.” He stares for a moment, mouth pressed into a thin line. “You know, for how unapproachable I can be, I’m also a half decent listener.” He throws a charming little half smile. “ And I mean if you ever want to talk crazy, you found the right guy.” 

I can’t help but let out a snort and eye roll, wiping away leftover tears and shoving him back by the shoulder. There’s only two directions we run, towards death or away from it; Jason likes to play tag, and somehow he’s found a way to laugh when the shadows grab at him. “You’re only a good listener because your guns have destroyed your hearing.” 

“I’m sorry, what?” He replies and I give him a love tap to the stomach. He returns the favor, and I must admit I much prefer his hugs. “And it’s not damaged hearing, it’s selective.” 

“Valid point.” We drift into silence. He looks as if he wants me to say more, but there is nothing more. I feel a pull to stay near him, near someone who can keep me safe even from myself. I also realize assigning someone the responsibility of my life is unfair. On the other hand, we are all adept at holding others’ lives in a delicate grasp as one would an injured bird. 

With no reason left to stay, I choke down the pointless gravitation toward Jason and turn away, shimmying out from between his hulking mass and the counter. “Well, if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to study.” What I mean to say is I am going to stare at the work until I feel too overwhelmed, then proceed to lay in bed until time for patrol, but same difference, right? 

A hollowed lime skin nails me in the back of the head, along with the sentiment, “Nerd.” I flip him off over my shoulder on the way out. “Promise?” He calls back. I keep walking. 

With every heavy step up the stairs, what happiness had been recovered in a moment of amusement crumbles to the carpet to be trampled and smashed between the threads. Even before I open my laptop I know there isn’t a chance of accomplishing a thing. The black line blinks against an empty document titled ‘The Efficacy of Neurogenetics’ for about thirty-two minutes before words begin to appear. 

**Why do I have to feel like this? What the fuck is wrong with me that I just can’t be happy? There is literally no reason for me to feel like killing myself, and yet knowing that just makes me want to do it even more. It’d be so easy and there’s so many options. Maybe I could even get creative since it’s bound to be in the newspaper either way. And yeah, Jay has a point that maybe people would be sad at first, but it’s not like they wouldn’t get over it. I’ve seen it happen tons of times, you cry for a while and then someone else comes along that’s just as good and maybe better. I’m so irrelevant to the grand expanse of the universes, it’s incredible to think that in a few years my existence will mean nothing and it will be as if I were never here. If we’re that meaningless, what’s the point? I’ve done such a horrible job at being a replacement that I needed my own damn replacement, and he’s actually done well. Bruce actually tries to be a father to him. Nobody needs me, fucking nobody cares and it won’t be that big of a deal.**

I stare at the words for a moment longer, allow the truth that I haven’t been able to vocalize to sink in. Every word of it is true, and in a sick way it’s a comfort. People only tell you they care and maybe they do, but it only lasts so long. Eventually I will be forgotten, nothing more than a decrepit headstone, if that. This world isn’t worth that. 

The paragraph is shaded blue and then gone. I close my laptop almost methodically, calm and thoughts more organized than they have felt in a while. My footsteps are nearly silent on the way to the bathroom. I close the door and turn the lock, roll my sleeves up and open up the special little box I keep under the sink. 

I sit in the bathtub since it’s easier to clean the mess that way. The razor glints promisingly against pale porcelain. Thoughts race and I clutch my head, willing the voices to be silent if only for a moment. _You’re nothing, you’re worthless, stupid, the worst kind of waste of air. Jason lied to your face just to placate you, I bet he was actually disappointed it wasn’t more than just a few cuts. Maybe you should try a more vertical line, it’d be much more effective._ I snatch the blade and take no caution in tearing into my already marred forearm. The voices are swept away amidst the stream of endorphins rushing to stifle the pain, a trickle that paints a pretty crimson against my skin. Who knew my blood would be the most beautiful aspect of myself? 

It’s not enough, not today. I still have to be cautious of how noticeable it might be on my forearms; even with long sleeves a deeper cut could open up and bleed through. I’d already had to explain myself once and am not fond of it occurring again, the next time with someone other than Jason. But still, my fingers itch to keep going with the voices hovering just out of range. 

My shirt is off before my mind catches up. A quick assessment of my behavior would tell me that this habit is quickly progressing into a dependency headed toward full blown addiction, but only those who want to end up further on their path take care to know where they are going. 

Scars already shine pearl streaks in various patterns. Some are starbursts of bullet holes, while others are blades being driven in or slashed across fragile skin. Any further damage would not be noted as significant. 

The bite of the razor is nothing compared to what I endure on a fairly normal basis, more so as ability to care for myself deteriorates. Hits that would normally result as a slight of my guard now purposely reach past range of my staff, each one taken as a well deserved punishment. Crimson adds yet another hue to the already bruise blossomed skin, satisfying yet always leaving a deeper longing for more. More pain, more blood until my debts for what I've screwed up are settled. No matter how I try, I know there is only one atonement that would pay the price in full.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading, hope you enjoyed! Feel free to leave kudos and comments. Also, I'm sorry if the formatting was weird anywhere, I gave up and technology hates me.


End file.
